Yet at times the loudest volumes come from the most quiet of days;
I speak of the Faustian temptation of the off-day;
I speak of the ambitions of a 20-something trying to run until he is buried;
I speak of the pandemonium of metaphysical message boxes counted 14 deep, compounded by layers of G-Talk, and the clarity somewhere therein.
I have been blessed with so many privileges. I therefore have the obligation to help those whom are less well off. I’m not referring to a progressive ideal of feeding the poor, or assist those whom cannot afford bread. But I speak of a brazen reality. The fact that despite the cavernous abyss of scheduling time with friends and family, is someone whom is forgotten. They don’t have a place to go. A friend to laugh with. They sit alone. And they have forgotten the joy of spontaneity.
It may sound above my experience to dictate of such a struggle. But it is not. I spent one year in an institution wherein I isolated myself, confined myself, and punished myself in a manner that no one, no matter how disoriented, ought to experience.
I see it others. I see others struggle within themselves. They are surviving widows, lonely husbands. People whom seemingly lost everything when they lost vocational duties.
Let me tell you something: Clarity doesn’t come to fruition through the routine. It doesn’t come from repetition. Story and memory may be relished from nostalgia, but progress is not killed in such habits.
Breaking barriers and trying new endeavors are the means of understanding. Seven years ago the idea of running wasn’t repulsive, but it wasn’t a part of me. Six years ago the thought of running 12 laps instead of 8 on a track was a feat. And two years ago I swore I would never embark on a legal crusade of education. Witness a comedy of errors.
If it was not that important to me, it would be funny.
Today I voluntarily chose to rest my body. I haven’t done this since I was forced to do this since last September. And before then I can’t recall. The greatest fear I have in doing this is creating distance from the sport. I fear I will lose the strength and tenacity to go out on a cold December morning. I.e. Expecting to be picked up by someone whom I misinformed about my estimate time of arrival -The possibility of running that course again to return home, because the coldness dried the strength of a cell phone’s battery.
I’m not referring to getting “out of shape”. Fitness is merely a bi-product of this pastime. If gaining 20 pounds and developing a lust for dark chocolate was a bi-product of running, I’d still do it. For me, it rarely is about the end.
The only instant that the end becomes within my field of vision, is when I lay awake wondering if I’ll be able to run forty years from now. I want my ability to stare back at me like a hand-less clock with numbers.
It is exactly this desire that makes me become more aware of my state. I recognize those whom never started; Those whom through no virtue or control of their own, have been denied the right to participate in something they may one day come to love.
